


Patina

by aronnaxs



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (not long), Character Study, Costumes, Gen, Identity Issues, Melancholy, how long can i go without a dante reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: It is not the first time he has worn false costume. James Fitzjames is a great performer, upon stage and off of it; such a grand performer that even he does not know, sometimes, where the lie begins and ends.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Patina

**Author's Note:**

> so i wanted to post some terror fanfic but so far all of my stories are half-finished smut fics haha. there are some amazing fics in this fandom so i am kinda nervous but,,, I hope you like! it's basically that lovely costume scene in ep6 but i so badly wanted to write fitzy

Is it possible to feel anything other than melancholy in the depths of the Arctic Circle? There is a wasteland of whiteness that encloses around the ship, stopped only by the encroaching shadows. The falling of the perpetual night only hides more ice, and in the dark, James can hear the moaning and grinding of it. Sometimes he will awake and believe that that _**thing**_ has stolen away onboard again, only for the vestiges of nightmare to drift away and remind him that he is sat in the midst of a frozen cradle at the cap of the earth. Isn’t that some of a nightmare itself? 

_Three winds made their way out from him, and all Cocytus froze before those winds._

That is how Dante described the deepest parts of hell, is it not? Not as a pit of fire, but a lake, eternally wreathed in ice. 

It is hard to bring up any other emotion but tight grief in these conditions. At the flicker of something more, the chill will reach out and freeze it again. James is stuck in it, for now, as much as the ships are jammed in the pack. 

He paces about the desk in the great cabin, if only to get his limbs to move. It is worse to sit still and allow those cold fingers to curl about him. The chart lays on the wood, pored over and studied again and again as if some lead will break open even as they look at the paper. The responsibility to watch over those invisible lines has fallen squarely to him now. Francis has locked himself away on Terror, fighting his own demons, and not just the one that lurks out there beyond their patch of civilisation. He has given authority over to the man he once mocked for not being an Arctic veteran. 

James has thought how nice it would be to do the same as Francis. Bar the doors. Ignore the necessities of command meetings. Abandon propriety. Yet settling a mask over a thing does not make it disappear. He knows that as well as any other aboard this vessel, perhaps more. 

He wanders from the desk and to the large windows gazing astern. Around, the noises of the ship are an ever-present background drone - the slow ache of the timber, its low, pained cries as the ice scrapes against it, the clump of heavy boots upon the decks, the distant, high piping of the bosun’s whistle. And yet it all sounds so far away. The captain’s cabin - _**his**_ cabin - seems so empty now, so large. It is meant for two senior officers, but all that remains of the other officer is a single limb. Sir John Franklin, esteemed explorer, governor of Van Diemen’s Land. James wonders how such a sudden, and mysterious end will be cloaked in glory when they return home. 

_**When**_ they return home. Such a simple word has a tremendous bite to it now. It is a mockery, or it is a shred of hope. James cannot, even in this abrasive, faith-stripping world, allow himself to consider the alternative. They _**shall**_ return to England. What he would give now for the sight of those rainy shores of home. 

Outside the windows, there is a faint flickering of light. The men have lit torches where they are building the shell of the Carnivale tent. They had been pleased with his idea for a party, and James always enjoys being the kernel of appreciation. Dundy had been just as thrilled as the crew, and James knows he has already picked out his costume. 

James returns to his quarters and opens up the chest. He leans his shaving mirror against a bulkhead, and works against the poor light. It is not the first time he has worn false costume. James Fitzjames is a great performer, upon stage and off of it; such a grand performer that even he does not know, sometimes, where the lie begins and ends. It is easier around others. An actor works off his audience, sees their reactions and twists it into his own tale. With no one else about him, it is a difficulty to know what to do. There is an underlying admission that he has to wear a face even alone, and that is a sad, cold truth. 

Arctic melancholy. Francis had said it was no melodrama, but this entire venture is precisely that. And James Fitzjames is always the star of his own show.

He finds himself drinking from a bottle - one of the few that Francis has not requisitioned under the quick thievery of Lieutenant Little. He holds outfits up to his body, leaner and frailer from months in deprivation. Gowns and armour, tunics and petticoats - the feminine and the masculine, the public and the private. It is only a party, yet the costume has to be inspired - a mix of truth and lie, to create the perfect illusion.

James bends to his knees when the fatigue washes over him. More and more, he has felt this lethargy, in his bones, in his every organ. He fears to see it in his face - in the sallow colour of his cheeks, the limp strands of his curled hair, the dark circles about his eyes. He makes himself look, closer, and for a moment, wonders if he can ignore the spots of blood upon his scalp. 

He cannot.

James sighs, sees his breath puff into the air. The world tilts, revives itself, tilts again. He opens his eyes, and still sees that same face staring back at him. He knows every line and angle, every ringlet of hair and growing wrinkle, but it is so often the countenance of a stranger. This man has made a gilded life, so perfectly composed, so perfectly structured. It is like that grand melodramatic play, although with a bitter touch of irony. 

He reaches back to the chest. He chooses a mask, framed with wiry golden flowers, and holds it before his face. 


End file.
